


Dream of Marrying Princes

by leviathanchronicles



Series: TMoCP Character Studies [1]
Category: The Miseducation of Cameron Post - Emily M. Danforth
Genre: Abuse, Character Study, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, Self-Mutilation, golly this is a fic, hello to the 2 people that have read this book please enjoy this, it's not graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 06:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathanchronicles/pseuds/leviathanchronicles
Summary: Mark Turner is happy, unless he needs to be genuine about himself, and he is genuine, unless he needs to be happy about himself. He's long since come to accept that this is always how it'll be.Or, a character study of a boy who had never really been in control but needs everyone else to believe otherwise.





	Dream of Marrying Princes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys I fricking..love Mark Turner... this is one of the best things I've ever written and hardly anyone is even gonna read it smh!!
> 
> Let's go ahead and date this fic by having me say that I can't WAIT for the movie, I am so pumped about it!!! let's GO
> 
> okay okay uhh nothing in this fic is graphic, though there certainly are implications. consider leaving a comment or kudos, criticism, fic requests, whatever!

Mark had always had a love for animated films; Disney was his favorite, having drawn him in with talking animals and lighthearted music. When he was a child, his father could accept this quirk. After all, cartoons are marketed to children, and maybe he’s just imagining being a prince and saving some beautiful princess. That’s innocent enough, playing the hero, and even at a young age, Mark understands that he shouldn’t admit that he prefers to imagine someone saving him. Boys can dream of being princes, and he does, but boys cannot dream of marrying princes, and he does. Mark never outgrows romantic stories, talking animals, or castles, but he learns to hate that side of himself just as much as he hides it.

He would never use his religion as a means to an end. It is too important to him, too valuable to simply use as an excuse or a way to hide the sides of himself that he thinks shouldn't even exist. Sometimes, though--sometimes, someone else will use it as an excuse for him. When someone asks, eyes glinting, who he thinks is the hottest girl in school, he only has to falter for a moment before someone else cuts in. “Leave him alone, you know he’s got all that religion stuff.” He isn’t even upset by the flippant manner in which they treat his entire life; it’s an excuse, it keeps him from lying, and he appreciates it.

He changes in the locker room after gym class. It isn’t that he doesn’t want other people to see him, though he does fret about his scrawniness on worse days, but rather that he doesn’t want to see other people. Even though his thoughts are almost always innocent, it seems like a crime to even look; he doesn’t want to be one of the predatory people he has heard about. It’s harder to pass this off as a religious issue--after all, why would he worry about seeing other boys if he’s normal? He lets them think he’s just self conscious. No one really seems to care, anyways; there are other people to mess with, people who are louder about their flaws.

In his adolescence, he still dreams of princes, but he wraps these dreams in a prayer journal and locks them in a drawer with the unspoken assumption that, if he’s good enough, God will remove these desires entirely, and he can be normal. Nothing changes, of course; he still blushes when one of the younger assistant pastors smiles at him, he still makes up excuses to avoid other guys, and he still pulls the garbage bins in for his neighbors, he still gives cookies to the mailman, he still tries to be genuinely kind. He comes home from a particularly fruitful walk and is greeted with uncomfortable stares, apologetic whispers. Still, his heart doesn’t drop until he sees his father, holding his prayer journal like it’s poison, waiting for a defense that they both know will never come.

* * *

 

Life at the school is strange, to say the least. He spends most of his time alone, sitting by the lake or in his room, studying and praying and doing devotions. He doesn’t mind this, finding it easier to focus on why he’s really there, but he misses a house full of brothers and a church full of people. Honestly, it gets lonely; all his life, he’d had an extended family of thousands of people, and now he is lucky to get a single letter a month from the family he’s actually related to. When Dane Bunsky settles beside him during his daily lake visit, he doesn’t complain. It’s someone to talk to, and he’s good at talking, and Dane is good at listening.

The two become close friends almost instantly. One can’t be picky when there’s only a handful of people to choose from, but either will attest to the fact that they would’ve chosen each other out of a huge crowd. Their lives are so different, and it shows in the way they greet the world--detached or overly personal, fake security or fake contentment. It becomes tradition for them to go to the lake together, appreciating nature and open space. Mark’s eyes sparkle in the sunlight as he starts another story, and Dane closes his as he leans back and listens. When he speaks, he keeps his eyes shut; his voice drags a word out like it has a million syllables, and the sun makes his skin shine. Mark stares for a moment, then drops his gaze to their shadows, close enough to seem like one.

The first time they kiss, they’re in Mark's room. Adam is off doing something he probably shouldn’t be doing, and Mark is getting some schoolwork done, and Dane is sitting beside him and watching over his shoulder. The door is open, as per the rules, but Mark’s side of the room is blocked by the doorway, a small blessing that he’d never even thought about. He’s leaning over a chart of a cell, his memory lost when it comes to science. Dane leans closer, points out RNA; Mark writes down the answer and turns to smile a thank you. When he notices how close Dane is, he thinks it’s like a movie, so stereotypically romantic, but that's okay, because he loves movies and romance and cliches. Dane closes the gap, threading his fingers through Mark’s as he does, and goodness, Mark understands why people give in to temptation. Down the hall, a door opens, and Mark pulls back; it isn’t until he’s falling asleep that he understands the guilt that comes with breaking the rules.

The second time they kiss, they’re in Dane’s room. It’s so, so different from Mark’s--Mark’s walls were covered in photos, his desk covered in neat stacks of religious and self-help books. After all, he’s a star pupil, and he earned privileges like they were rights. Dane’s walls are empty, save for the iceberg, and his drawer is a mess of old worksheets and impersonal items. It isn’t that he hasn’t earned these privileges, but that he has no reason to take advantage of them. This is what Mark thinks about as he leans into Dane’s side, stealing the affection he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. The two are quiet, comfortable, and Mark shifts so he can lay in his head on Dane’s shoulder. This time, the kiss is practically the same as before, but it comes with a new warmth that makes Mark want to redefine his idea of content.

* * *

 

Even with this newfound romance, things do not get easier. If anything, they’re worse; now Mark has a new set of lies to keep up with. None of the other disciples would care, really, but Mark still shakes his head when Dane starts to speak, still looks away when they discuss what they’ve done. They’re holding an impromptu group therapy session, code for gossiping about people they once knew, and Never Have I Ever turns into Analyze Mark Turner. “You’ve never done anything? Not even with a girl?” Jane asks, obviously doubtful, and Mark doesn’t even glance at Dane before offering a negative. He hates lying, but that doesn’t mean he’s bad at it; in fact, it just shows how easily he can sin. Of course, he is as human as every other person on the planet, but sometimes, he doesn’t want to admit to that.

These lies keep up his innocence, and that comes with some issues of its own. It’s a bit obvious that he’s less worldly than his fellow disciples, and of course they notice that. He catches how a few of them study him, but he never says a word, willing to let them have their curiosities. He reminds himself not to judge others, reminds himself of love and compassion and understanding that he is in no way superior; he is kind, after all, but that doesn’t mean he is good. After a comment about his lack of experience, he recites “all sins are equal in the eyes of the Lord” without so much as considering his audience, too used to his father prompting that response. He doesn’t have to look up to feel the disbelief or hear the scoffs, but they leave it be.

He cannot, will not, detach his religion from his happiness. The latter cannot exist without the former; then again, if happiness is in a tall boy's lingering gazes and trailing fingers, as he begins to believe it is, he doesn’t know how to connect the two again. Christmas comes and goes; his father’s gaze burns, his father’s hands sting, and when Mark returns, he struggles to feel warmth in touch again. By the time he’s settled in, gotten used to this love, he receives the letter. The handwriting is straight; the pen had been pressed in so deeply that it left indents, one touch away from tearing through. He’s memorized the words after a single read, but he scans it over and over and over. Save for required responses, he doesn’t speak to anyone again until group.

* * *

 

The hospital he wakes up in is warm, and he thinks that’s strange. Hospitals are supposed to be cold and clinical, but this one has thick air that seems to choke him and leave him feeling more trapped than he ever had before. He’s got an iv in, and though he can barely move his upper body, his lower body is completely out of touch. His mom hugs him, whispers a prayer as she buries her face in his neck, and he absentmindedly pats her on the back and stares at his father. Sure enough, his father doesn’t share the affection his mother has; he has the decency to ask her and Mark’s siblings to leave the room before asking Mark why he would do this, if he has any idea how this makes the family look, how this makes the church look.

For once, he can find no positive spin, no optimistic outlook; he is in the hospital, and his father still hates him, and he’s wrapped up so tightly it hurts. He nods as he is lectured, closes his eyes and tries to pray, but the words no longer come as easily as they had before. He struggles to find any words past “Dear Heavenly Father”, settling with a halfhearted request for forgiveness and for strength, which he is still so lacking. There are no princes coming to save him, no group therapy to vent through, no soft touches to guide him home. He has himself, with a splitting headache and dark eyes and his own idea of morality. This won’t be enough, it never will be, but for now, he will manage.


End file.
